


Mirror mirror

by Sagnfreidi



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Arthur swears a lot in his head, Clubbing, Dom/sub, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Light Angst, M/M, Making Out, No Smut, Pining, References to Drugs, Requited Unrequited Love, but no actual drugs, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-08
Updated: 2019-03-08
Packaged: 2019-11-13 20:51:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18038813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sagnfreidi/pseuds/Sagnfreidi
Summary: Somehow Eames convinced Arthur that going to a club after a job well done was a good idea. But watching Eames on the dance floor with no hope of getting closer to him than just watching really drives home that Arthur needs to stop doing this to himself.





	Mirror mirror

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little bunny that popped into my head and begged to be written.  
> WARNING for the mentions of drug use, though no one is using in this fic.

It would be a lie to say that clubbing was an unfamiliar scene to Arthur. He’d spent plenty of his youth dancing his heart out in clubs just like this, drinking with friends and strangers alike. And alright, maybe this bar was a little more upscale, the clientele more his present age than what he’d gone for back in his college days, but. Arthur might be an uptight perfectionist when it came to work, and he might be finally able to afford to indulge his fashion sense: he wasn’t yet so old that he didn’t remember what it was to be lost in the music, high on the beat and alcohol and maybe something more (though he didn’t do drugs these days, somnacin could really fuck you over in unexpected ways when mixed with party drugs, and Arthur liked his brain unscrambled, thanks).

It wasn’t unfamiliarity that had Arthur feeling like he didn’t quite fit in his own skin, that everything was just a little wrong. It wasn’t that he looked out of place in his suit, crumbled as it was getting and with buttons undone – he fit in just fine. It wasn’t that he felt awkward on the dance floor, or that he couldn’t hold his liquor or any of the other myriad of things that could make a novice in a club stand out like sore thumb. It wasn’t drugs that had him pale and clammy and feverish. It wasn’t even a fucking cold, though that would have been preferable.

Alright, maybe it was the alcohol, a little, and the music, and the raw energy of the room. Because usually Arthur was in control of himself and his thoughts, but this place was _designed_ to draw out those base desires, and on the crowded dance floor with alcohol buzzing in his veins and the bass pumping through his body, Eames was impossible to ignore as he danced next to Arthur, too close, too sensual, too much in every way. And Arthur was always in control, but right now he wasn’t, and he had to get away, because he was going to be fucked if he lost it now.

The bathroom was too bright after the dimness of the dance floor, and he looked even worse than he thought, skin almost white and eyes glazed and wide, too wide. He looked like he was on something, coke maybe. He was vibrating too, with all the frustration and pent up sexual tension that he usually kept buried deep down.

He needed to get right back on that, but Eames never made it easy, always teasing with an edge of flirting, always pushing a little harder, but never fucking following through. Arthur had been sure, so many times already, that this was it: Eames meant it this time. He never fucking did. Drinks after a job always ended with a cheerful _‘until next time, darling, try not to miss me too much’_ or worse, with Eames picking up someone else. Someone more interesting. When it came right down to it, Eames didn’t actually want Arthur, he just liked the game of it. It was just something to while away boring hours at the job until he could go out and get something better.

Arthur fucking hated that it was always the same, he hated Eames for continuing to string him along, and most of all he hated himself for continuing to fall for it. He wasn’t even getting sex out of it, he was just hopelessly, pathetically trailing along. The fact that he hadn’t given in yet and begged Eames to please take him to bed was a hollow victory for his battered dignity. Because he still went with Eames after every job, hoping that this would be the time…

He had to get a grip on himself. Eames didn’t want him. He had better options – pretty much everyone was an option for him, really. Of course he didn’t want Arthur, who was uptight and who managed to be boring and logistical and unimaginative about _dreams_ , for fuck’s sake. Who had rules and plans for his life and for everything else too and who came with so many strings attached it wasn’t funny at all.

Arthur leaned forward, bracing himself against the sink, and closed his eyes. He needed to just get a grip. Go out there and tell Eames goodbye – if Eames hadn’t already found himself someone for the night while Arthur had secluded himself – and then leave. Leave and stay gone, leave and not go out with Eames again, least of all to a club, what the fuck had he been thinking? Just, he needed to leave and give up on his hopeless infatuation and move on with his life. Right. He was going to do that in just another minute.

The door to the bathroom opened behind him, but Arthur didn’t move or open his eyes. He didn’t particularly care that he was standing there like this – to anyone else, he probably just looked like a guy who’d had too much to drink.

“Arthur? You alright there, darling?” A British voice asked, because of course, _of course_ it had to be Eames walking in on his moment of weakness. Slowly Arthur opened his eyes, looking up to meet Eames gaze in the mirror.

Eames was unfairly gorgeous, even in the unforgiving bathroom lights. His skin glistened with sweat from having danced, muscles moving enticingly under the too tight purple shirt that clung even worse to him with the perspiration, the shadows of his tattoos peeking through. Unlike Arthur, Eames was all tanned skin with a healthy flush of exertion in his cheeks. His hair was wild, escaping the pomade’s hold on it. Arthur wanted to run his hands through it. He wanted to lick Eames’ skin, every sweaty, golden inch of it. He wanted to be pinned by those muscled arms and feel his thick thigh pressing against him, he wanted to ride him until neither of them could see straight.

He also wanted to hurt Eames until he felt as bad, until he regretted not loving Arthur as much as Arthur did. 

Neither of these were actual options, but by the time Arthur had made himself come to terms with this, several seconds had passed in silence, and Eames was looking at him, trying to figure him out. 

“Arthur?” He repeated. And he’d moved closer, oh god, why? He was hovering just behind Arthur’s shoulder, close enough that Arthur could _smell_ him, rich and spicy and manly and musky with fresh sweat, and so absolutely mouthwateringly good even over the less pleasant odors of club toilets.

Arthur was lightheaded and wrong-footed and he just, he couldn’t deal with this. Even less so when Eames reached out, placing a hand on Arthur’s hip. It was burning hot and like a brand even through the layers of clothes and Arthur let out an embarrassing sound that was much too close to a whimper for comfort.

“Eames…” He tried to protest, but his voice came out wrecked and hoarse, and Eames slipped his hand around to Arthur’s stomach as he stepped closer and kept him pinned like that. It felt shockingly intimate with Eames’ big hand splayed out across his belly, a steady pressure that kept Arthur immobile and breathless against Eames’ sturdy body. Looking in the mirror at the picture they made did nothing to help him gain back his footing. Arthur, with a high flush and glassy eyes, head involuntarily tilted back towards Eames, lips parted and panting for air. Eames, holding him possessively, so completely in control as he looked at Arthur with a predatory gaze.

Arthur helplessly watched Eames raise his free hand and slide it up to Arthur’s throat, holding on lightly, his eyes never leaving Arthur’s as his did so. Arthur did whimper then, feeling the pressure against the column of his vulnerable throat and watching Eames watch him back, watch him respond so wantonly to Eames’ effortless domination. And Arthur _wanted_ , wanted to give in and give Eames anything he asked for. But they’d come so close so many times, and Eames always wanted something else, something better, and Arthur couldn’t do this and have Eames walk away afterwards without a backwards glance. It would shatter him.

“Please.” He gasped. Eames smirked, much too pleased with himself, and Arthur felt small and helpless and not entirely in a good way.

“Please what, sweetheart?” Eames asked, murmuring straight into Arthur’s ear, and Arthur shivered, his breath coming out in short little bursts.

“Please don’t do this. Not unless you mean it.” Arthur begged, well aware that he was laying himself entirely bare for Eames to see: that this wasn’t a fling for him, that Arthur wanted so much more, that he wanted everything.

The effect was instantaneous too. Eames’ expression went from self-satisfied and smug to alarmed and sober in an instant, and Arthur thought _oh god, I’ve ruined it_. And it hurt worse than anything, even if he’d already known that Eames wasn’t interested like that, it still hurt to be rejected.

Arthur tried to pry himself away from Eames’ hold, then, because he couldn’t stand being so close and hear the rejection whispered straight into his ear. It just… he couldn’t. But Eames wouldn’t let him go, and Arthur was starting to get a little hysteric, tears pressing against the back of his eyes.

“Eames, fuck, let me go, Eames!” He said, or more likely cried, but Eames didn’t budge. Instead he held on tighter.

“Bloody hell, Arthur. Stop!” He cursed and then ordered, and Arthur did, purely out of instinct.

“Let me go.” He whispered again, still in Eames’ arms, tears humiliatingly rolling down his cheeks. And Eames looked gutted, like this was the worst possible scenario, and it kind of was, but why wouldn’t he just let go?

“Darling, if it’s really what you want, I’ll let you go, of course I will. But I don’t think it’s what you want. And it certainly isn’t what I want.” He said, and Arthur couldn’t figure this out. He was tired, emotionally and physically and he just couldn’t make sense of anything anymore.

“What does that mean, Eames?” He asked, afraid to get his hopes up, but unable not to hope at least a little. Eames carefully turned him around so they faced each other rather than the mirror. He kept a firm hold of Arthur throughout.

“It means, Arthur, that I want to hold you, and I want to take you home, and I want to do all sorts of depraved things to you, and then I want do it all over again, as long as you’ll let me. It means that I want to dry off your tears and do my best to make sure you never cry again and just take care of you. It means that I ‘mean it’, Arthur. I mean this.” He said, softly but insistently and Arthur was so overwhelmed that he forgot to close his eyes when Eames leaned in and kissed him.

It was soft and tender and a million miles from the heavily loaded sexual thing that had happened moments before, and it was so achingly perfect Arthur wanted to curl up and bask in it – or at least he did a moment after it ended, when his brain finally caught up with him.

Eames was looking questioningly and hopefully at him, waiting for a response. Arthur surged forward, completely without grace. This time he closed his eyes, blindly finding Eames’ mouth and kissing him with all the desperation of years of unrequited love. Eames met him more than willingly, coaxing Arthur’s blind desperation into something softer and better, and Arthur was shivering when it ended, leaning in and hiding his face against Eames’ neck because it was all just so much.

“Oh, darling. It’s alright, I’ve got you. I’ll take care of you, now. I’ve got you.” Eames murmured soothingly as his hands rubbed circles into Arthur’s back. It took a while for Arthur to stop shaking, but Eames miraculously didn’t seem to mind. Still, Arthur was embarrassed that he was such a mess. This wasn’t at all how he’d wanted things to go, in so far that he’d had any hopes, and he was caught by the need to explain himself.

“I just… I’ve wanted you for so long, Eames, you have no idea, but you never… you never… And get why, I’m not at all… you can do so much better, but I still… And just…” Arthur was not nearly as coherent as he’d hoped, but Eames seemed to catch on anyway. He tightened his grip on Arthur.

“Shut up, Arthur. God, you idiot. You’re _perfect_ , you have to know, you’re so beautiful and smart and sharp, and all these things that I can’t get enough of. Thing is, I’ve always known that you needed more than I could give you, darling. But I don’t care anymore. I don’t care that our lives keep us on different continents half the time, or that we’ll be a liability to one another. I want to be the one to give you what you need, the one to take care of you, and just, _I want you_. And we’ll make it work, somehow, because I can’t stay away from you anymore.” Eames said, and Arthur was pretty much just gaping at him, trying to reconcile this impassioned confession with the way his world had looked before tonight.

“If that’s alright with you?” Eames asked politely, seeing as Arthur hadn’t answered. Arthur swallowed a lump.

“Yes. Please.” He said, and Eames grinned, delighted and a little wicked.

“Good.” He said, and then proceeded to kiss Arthur thoroughly. Arthur moaned and clung to Eames for dear life as Eames’ tongue slid into his mouth, doing things to Arthur that made him lose all ability to support himself, making his whole body tingle and arousal pool heavily in his stomach. But Eames was there, broad and strong and muscled, easily holding Arthur, and, fuck, Arthur was losing the ability to string sentences together, even in his head.

It felt like a small, perfect eternity before they broke apart, panting against one another’s lips.

“Let me take you home, darling.” Eames said, and Arthur nodded, laughing because it was finally happening and Eames was looking at him like he was the best thing he’d ever seen, like all of Arthur’s plans and strings were more than welcome with him, and Arthur felt, for the first time in a very long time, completely and utterly happy.


End file.
